A drawing by Ethel Mortenson Davis for the cover of Thomas Davis’s novel for young adults, Salt Bear, which is published by Four Windows Press at our home in Continental Divide, New Mexico
Tag Archives: nature
The Dream
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
In my dream
I was in a forest, just born.
(I was given a second chance.)
My old beginning
was an old skin,
discarded and left behind,
one covered with pain
and suffering,
one I had separated from
and left on the forest floor
behind me.
Here, I was born
into a loving family,
one who welcomed me
and esteemed me.
The she-wolf nurtured me
(animals take care of their young)
as I clung tight to her soft hair.
She spoke to me.
Her close-set eyes cautioned me.
“When you feel danger
leave that place.
You will always have danger
and enemies.
“If you are wounded
go back to your beginning.
And there in the quiet
and coolness you will heal.”
She taught me how to live.
“Take care of your reality
at hand. Take care
of your young first.”
She taught me how to die.
“Death is a passage
to another beginning.
Remember, there is always
hope.”
The soft winds of the forest
rocked me to sleep.
The evening primroses
caressed me with their sweet water.
My life was full,
And I was happy.
When I awoke
I knew I had begun again.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Snow
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The snow laid down
on the ground
thick and deep,
covering over
the mistakes
we made yesterday—
white covering
over red–
like the wounded deer
that winter
in the swamp
missed by tracking hunters.
He found refuge
among the cedars
in the water.
He laid still,
but spirit still moved
in his eyes
as snow
quietly covered him—
white covering
over red.
Copyright © I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico, 2010.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Cracked Sandstone
a photograph by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son
The Palmer Gallery at Vassar College in Poughkeepsie New York is currently displaying Kevin’s photographs in a curated show. The Vassar website can be found at http://www.vassar.edu.
Filed under Art, Photography
Empty Hands
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
You come again
with empty hands.
When I meet you
your hands have nothing for me.
Not a small desert blossom.
Not a tiny bit of driftwood.
No rock.
You could have reached down
on your walk across the desert
and picked up a small gift.
I yearn for those hands
to be generous.
My father,
although a tyrant,
always had something for me
in his large brown hands.
But you,
I will rename you
“Empty Hands.”
Tomorrow the light
that floods the high desert
will present itself to me
as my gift.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
